


Come Back Home

by virmillion



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, honestly just, logince broke up but the whole fic revolves around them having been in a relationship so, roman is one of them, some people should Not Be Allowed to party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-08-19 22:12:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16543265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virmillion/pseuds/virmillion
Summary: once upon a time, there was logince. then the author spake, 'let there be rage.' what happens next will shock you





	Come Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> please bear with me i have never had an alcohol and am writing out of my rear here

“Just getting some air,” Roman replies to whatever disembodied voice calls after him. The screen door creaks nearly shut behind him, sticking just before the door jamb and letting the cool night air flood into the crowded building. With a shrug, he continues out, remembering too late that his socks and shoes were still abandoned inside. Maybe stolen. Probably stolen. Best of all, beyond the mourned loss of footwear, he's left with no choice but to trudge into the dew-covered grass. Wet feet. Stellar. He wiggles his toes gently as he paces into the weedy grass, ignoring the pair of kids viciously eating each other’s faces off on the side of the house. Some vague memory pokes at him, a reminder of the last time he played cupid for those two. He swats it away with a hand, not caring how ridiculous it might look. Not like anyone else is watching, right? Just him, that couple, and a quaking house of people who don't know him, not really.   
Roman trails a limp finger along the seam between the bricks, admiring the cool, pebbly texture under his skin as he rounds the corner. The red wall is hardly visible, let alone shining under the miniscule light of the waning moon. He allows himself a small smile, thinking of how this would be a great time for a fun fact about Gibbous versus Crescent moons, or a mini lecture on the history of Galileo Galilei. Never again.   
“Roman, buddy, you good?” that same voice from earlier asks. A quiet sigh fights its way out of him, the solidarity of night lost to the dark blue abyss looming overhead. He’d never get it back, that’s for sure.   
“Yeah. No, yeah, I’m great, thanks.” Roman waves a hand as a lanky hoodie floats toward him, darkly covered legs vanishing with the moon. “I’m fine. I’m great. I’m stellar, really.”   
“See, I feel like you’re lying to me here, and that’s just not cool, dude,” the hoodie replies.    
“Virgil. I’m fine. Seriously.”   
“If you’re so fine, can you get inside and help me? Patton got into the garage when I wasn’t looking, and I, uh—”   
“I’m on it.” Roman steels himself as he squelches his feet once more through the dew-covered grass, the hoodie trailing close behind. Solidarity would just have to wait, but what else is new?   
“Ho-hey, it’s the roam-ster!”   
“Roman, my man, where’d you go?”   
“Hey bud, get on in here, you’ve  _ gotta _ hear this one!”   
Roman forces down the instinctual urge to flee, letting his learned senses take over. A wink here, a nod there, feigned interest in each and every conversation. Jenny got back with Ken again? Shocking, truly, never would’ve guessed. People are juuling? Never heard of it, keep it away from me, sounds boring, insert perfectly timed and naturally pitched laugh here, move on and get away before the discussion ropes him down and there’s no escape. Find Patton, that’s 

all he has to do. Find Patton, keep the hoodie in tow, and get back outside to safety because the house is just too damn full.   
“Chug! Chug! Go! Go! Go!” a chorus of voices cheer from behind the kitchen bar counter, none discernible from the next. The hoodie flinches, wrapping a sleeve around Roman’s hand and gluing their shoulders together.   
“It’s gonna be okay, promise. Stay close, I’ll take care of it,” Roman reassures his friend, squeezing the sleeve back. A hesitant smile gleams from under the hood. Across the wood-tiled floor forges the pair, damp feet and sneakers squeaking over the smooth finish. Behind the island overflowing with all manner of drinks stands an abnormally optimistic person—well, abnormal for anyone else. For him in particular, his mood is a bit muted if anything. Surrounding the guy is an impossibly large group of total strangers, none without a fist in the air, the other shakily gripping a shot glass.   
“Patton, I don’t really think you need—” Roman tries, his voice a soft breeze against a whipping tornado of shouts and jeers.   
“Look at all this fr—fren—fernd—ferdined—people I meant!” Patton spews, tripping over his words. A spray of something accompanies the laughter at himself, smattering the half-emptied bottles arranged haphazardly on the counter. “Come—come on—cmon—cmover here ki—kid—kiddo!”   
“I’m three months older than you,” Roman mutters, gripping the trembling hoodie sleeve tighter. “Patton, I think you’ve had enough for now.”   
“Aw, c’mon, Romer, don’t be a buzzkill!”   
“Yeah, Ramen, loosen up a little!”   
“You used to be fun, killjoy!”   
He doesn’t know how it happens, but one way or another, Roman finds himself with a red cup in one hand, his other emptied of any sort of sleeve, and Patton singing horridly off-key directly into his ear. The kitchen tilts sideways as the cup drifts to his mouth again. Empty. He doesn’t remember taking that sip.   
“Roman? Why are you back out here again?” Roman blinks, bringing the cup to his mouth again. Thirsty. More. Not a cup. He wipes his hand on his face, baffled as to where the cup went. His hand is wet.   
“Roman, I really think we need to get you home now. I can’t find Patton, but you aren’t doing much better.” Roman scrapes at his face harder. Something comes off, and it’s definitely wet, so why does he still need more to drink? “Quit eating the grass and open your eyes, doof.” Shoving a hand through his mangled hair, Roman lolls his head forward. Clumps of grass surround his feet, knees drawn up to his chest and back pressed against the same bricks from earlier. He wonders absently if those two people are still making out. “Roman. Up.” Something straightens under him, a leg, something, a foot, nothing, and the grass clusters come sprinting up to meet his chin.   
Roman doesn’t bother spitting the grass out, letting the coldness soak over his tongue, satiate the desperate inner plea for a drink. One blade drags carefully down his face, leaving a pleasantly cool trail in its wake. He watches it float to join its brethren, all still alive and mocking its return. A picture of a court of grass kings skitters across his mind, with blades of grass wielding pollen and bee stingers as shields and swords. Maybe the blades of grass have battles against the evil invading weeds, but both team up to fight off the humans with their pesticides. Roman starts to laugh, a horrendous cackle stemming from nothing and growing into shouts that fill the empty night sky.   
“Patton can handle himself, then. I’m taking you home.” Nonsense giggles pour out of Roman, an underscoring to Virgil's monotone voice fruitlessly begging for cooperation.   
"'m fine, Berge. 's go back 'nside, talk to Pa'on, yeah?" Oddly enough, his legs refuse to work with him, weighing heavier by the second as they sink into the dirt. Roman feels himself falling down, down, down, burying himself in the ground and letting the size of the sky and the earth and Virgil and him and everything he did and everything he could have done but never did because he  _ left, dammit, why did he have to leave? _ All of it. He lets all of it suffocate him, yanking him into a sparse black unknowable endlessness and choking the last fighting bits of his life away. Roman laughs.   
"Just try not to die, okay? I'm going to go get you a glass of water." The hoodie vanishes down the hall, stirring something inside of Roman. He blinks once, twice, the comforting dirt and soil replacing itself with the mound of blankets in his apartment. They weigh him down further, demanding he stay still when all he wants to do now is scream, yell, cry, demand something of the world when it stole from him so many times before, but he  _ can't _ , he can't demand  _ anything _ because Roman already took so much and now he's gone and there's only Virgil and Patton and quiet and loneliness in rooms filled to the point of breaking with total strangers that he's known his whole life and he wishes it could just be  _ over _ even though it already  _ is _ . It's over. It's been over for so long. He doesn't remember when it ended. Maybe it never started in the first place.   
"Dude, you gotta sit up and drink some water. Come on." The hoodie reappears, this time with a living face beneath it. The sleeve jabs out, thumping Roman's chest with a glass of something clear. Water, apparently. Roman wrinkles his nose in disinterest, burrowing his head further under the fabric.   
"You go to parties all the time, what was different about this one?" The hoodie takes a seat on the edge of the mattress—Virgil, the hoodie has a name and the hoodie is here to help when he isn't here so  _ why can't Roman just accept that? _   
Roman reaches a hand out of his cave, fingers wobbling every which way. "Just need to call, I need to let him know—"   
"Roman. No. He's gone. I know it hurts, but you need to take care of yourself, and this is the wrong way to do it. Don't touch that phone."   
"I just want—"   
"No, you don't. You want to wallow, because that's safer and easier than facing how you actually feel." Virgil takes on a sympathetic tone, not letting his focus settle on the crystal sparkles dripping down Roman's face. "You already tried this, buddy. He isn't coming back."   
Roman chokes out a sob, some animalistic noise that he can't force back down to where it came from because  _ Virgil is right he's gone and Roman is alone and there's nothing to be done about it but he just wants to call him but he can't because everything is over and it will never be fixed— _ __  
"Stop that. Stop spiraling and listen to me." Virgil rests a hand on the rough outline of Roman's arm under the blankets. "I know it sucks, and I know you're hurting, but this is just how things are. I'm still here for you, and Patton is still here for you, and you're safe with us, and you don't have to worry about anything because we will  __ always be here for you, okay?" Roman allows himself a single loud sniff, squeezing his eyes shut.   
"Okay. Okay. I know. Okay."   
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but the next morning, Roman wakes to find Virgil passed out on the couch, hand dangling over the side and phone inches below it. Roman drops one of the spare blankets over his friend, wincing at the feeling of a knife stabbing through his skull. On the table rests his phone, probably confiscated when Roman surrendered his consciousness. The screen lights up at his touch, inquiring whether he wants to resend the voicemail he doesn't remember recording. Roman presses play.   
"Hey, Logan, I just—I wanted to—I was just—I don't know. Sorry. I just—I just called to say I want you to come back home."   
Roman deletes the message.

 

\---------------------

 

"I definitely bombed that, but how do you think you did? If you say you failed when you got an A, I'm going to punch you," some student informs Logan as they exit the building.   
"I have complete and utter confidence in my abilities to have bullcrapped my way through the entire test," Logan replies, without so much as a smile at his own expense.   
"Funny, I would've thought you'd studied for weeks in advance. You're the kind of person who starts the next three units before we even finish the current one, you know?"   
Logan doesn't bother looking at the source of the voice that obviously doesn't know anything about him at all. "Just because I study doesn't mean it sticks. Don't assume I have everything together when that's what I've trained you to think."   
"Excuse me?"   
"Sure thing, you're excused. I suppose I'll see you later, provided you bother showing up to the next lesson, although I don't know why you would waste your time. Until then." Logan bounces his fingers by his leg, the closest thing to a wave this kid was going to get. Probably a future dropout, in Logan's objective opinion.   
"Forget you, man. Why don't you try getting off your high horse and try being human sometime?"   
"If you think I have the time for that sort of nonsense, you're even more dense than I thought." With an unnecessary readjustment of his glasses, Logan peels off from the other half of his little duo, turning right at a fork in the path for his campus housing building. Dead leaves crunch underfoot, the screams of Mother Nature blowing away in the breeze. If Logan were the emotional sort, perhaps he would make a connection between crushing dead leaves and the death of everything he used to know. But he's not, so he doesn't.   
The brisk gusts of autumn give way to more forceful blows of winter, sending goosebumps racing down his arms. He draws his shoulders up to his ears, hands desperately rubbing the heat of friction into his skin. Unwelcome thoughts trail in, of when someone else was there, when someone else lent him a ridiculously gaudy jacket, when someone else—   
No.   
None of that.   
Logan pulls up a fun fact app on his phone to distract himself, to absorb baseless information that might not even be credible, to drown out the aching reminders around every corner. All useless, all nonsense, all unnecessary, and yet.   
And yet further he scrolls, skimming over new information to be stored away and forgotten, never to see the light of day again. Just like memories. Just like him. Just like them.   
"Get out of your own head, Logan. This isn't like you," he tells himself aloud, ignoring how it might look to anyone watching. The seams of the pavement squares chase him all the way to the front door of his housing building, catching up as he tips his chin to the volunteer receptionist. What Logan assumes is a friendly gesture appears to be taken as a threat, as the student cowers behind the desk as if it were a fortress wall. With a shrug, Logan heads for the stairs, hating the way such habits tend to stick. If he had never heard that stupid story about getting trapped, Logan wouldn't be avoiding elevators like the plague now. But he did, so he does.   
Only slightly winded by the time he reaches the fourth floor, Logan allows his pace to slow. Not like he has anywhere to be today. Not like he really  _ has _ to be anywhere  _ ever _ , technically. He could hole up in his room and never come out and his own roommate would be none the wiser, always out at parties and getting high behind closed doors. Logan doesn't even know the guy's name, though that might be his own fault. Regardless, he lets the door click shut behind him, triple locking the deadbolt. An empty set of rooms greets him, every door swinging open carelessly and garbage strewn about with reckless abandon.   
Logan releases a frustrated sigh, setting about with the task of cleaning up after whatever party last rampaged through the room. First things first, the returnables—might as well profit off of his problems.   
_ "I swear, you could buy out the whole store with how much you get returning cans." _ __  
__ _ "The average price of building a grocery store in 2005 would be six point five million dollars. If we lived in Michigan and got ten cents per can, it would literally take me returning sixty five million cans, or five point four million twelve packs just to break even with the building prices, let alone the taxes on it and the bribes to get the owners to relinquish ownership to me." _ __  
__ _ "Metaphor." _ __  
__ _ "Sarcasm." _ __  
__ _ "Nerd." _ __  
__ _ "Understudy." _ __  
__ _ "Okay, well now you've just gone too far." _ __  
__ _ A laugh, a knocking of shoulders, and a teasing jab as the receipt for the returnables skyrockets. _   
No.   
None of that.   
Logan moves on, each of the returnables neatly piled on the only clear counter in the kitchenette. Next order of business, the literal trash covering every free surface.   
__ _ "Were you raised by pigs?" _ __  
__ _ "They prefer the term Sus scrofa domesticus, thank you very much." _ __  
__ _ "Regardless, this room is filthy. How can you live in such squalor?" _ __  
__ _ "Maybe if you weren't always so preoccupied with your performances, you would have paused to notice how much of my time is consumed with schooling. Better late than never, but the lateness still requires effort to succeed." _ __  
__ _ "Alright, Aristurdle, spare me the quotables." _ __  
__ _ "Definitely, DiCaproman, provided you spare me the unending lectures on my workspace. This desk is my temple. Do not tell me how I may or may not adorn the altar." _ __  
__ _ "Geek." _ __  
__ _ "Chorus member number three." _ __  
__ _ "Harsh." _ __  
__ _ One might think a teasing punch that gets someone yanked into a hug would be awkward over a pile of papers. Not so. In fact, the scattering of work acts as confetti in the background of their silent embrace, two people hugging for no other reason than that they can. Holding on for dear life, because no one ever really knows how long it can last before something else cuts it off. _ __  
__ _ "Logan?" _ __  
__ _ "I'm right here." _ __  
__ _ "I know." _ __  
__ _ "So what is it?" _ __  
__ _ "I love you." _ __  
__ _ Silence. _   
No.   
None of that.   
Logan deposits the considerable bag of garbage by the door for the elusive roommate to deal with later. Not his problem in the first place, and certainly not anymore. The vacuum, waiting patiently in the hall closet, sounds impossibly loud in the dead silent apartment. As it swallows up everything in its path, Logan has the absurd idea of jumping inside and hiding away from the world.   
_ "Would you turn your damn music down?" _ __  
__ _ "Would you turn your damn attitude down?" _ __  
__ _ "Sure, I'll fold it neatly in a box and mail it off to Kansas if it makes you happy!" _ __  
__ _ "You know I don't like you bringing that up." _ __  
__ _ "And you know I don't like blasting show tunes when I have important exams, yet here we are." _ __  
__ _ "Sorry. I'll turn it down, if that helps. I'm just really stressed, you know?" _ __  
__ _ "I know. End of the seasons of school and shows. Stressful all around." _ __  
__ _ "Sorry. I still love you, though, don't worry." _ __  
__ _ "Yeah." Dammit, Logan, just say it back. Three words. Say it before it's too late, just say it, open your mouth and vibrate your vocal chords and tell him before he goes and it's too late and— _ __  
__ _ "I think I'm gonna turn in for the night." _ __  
__ _ "Yeah." _   
No.   
None of that.   
Logan finishes, abandoning the vacuum in the middle of the floor and ignoring the remaining stains. They'd never come out anyway, so what would be the point? Exactly, there is none.   
In his own room, he throws himself onto the mattress, stripped bare save for a white pillow and a threadbare sheet. Alone and exhausted, he waits for sleep to pull him under, but it would appear even unconsciousness doesn't want him anymore.   
__ _ "How did Roman take the news?" _ __  
__ _ "I didn't tell him." _ __  
__ _ "Logan, that's hardly—" _ __  
__ _ "It's too late now, I'll be long gone by the time he finds out. If he really cared, he would have noticed me shipping out from my apartment." _ __  
__ _ "That's a little unreasonable, don't you think?" _ __  
__ _ "Hardly, but it doesn't matter, anyway. I ruined everything, and it's beyond fixing, so I'm leaving. Simple as that." _ __  
__ _ "Well, are you at least coming home for the holidays? Switching colleges like this can be really stressful, you shouldn't have to go it alone." _ __  
__ _ "Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know." _ __  
__ _ "Be careful, at least. Love you!" _ __  
__ _ "Yeah." _   
No.   
None of that.   
Logan glares at his phone, glowing on his bedside table to rival the waning moon outside. Nonsense messages from nonsense teachers about nonsense assignments. The only company offered by an empty world, save for these stupidly frivolous memories. His thoughts hammer through his ears, reminding him of the sort of notification he used to look forward to from the ringing rectangle. Not anymore. Those messages are gone forever, and he's never getting them back.   
__ _ Leave another, _ whispers a hopeful voice deep inside of him. He bites his lip, trying to fight the ridiculous desire.  __ Call him, you know you want to. Tell him. Tell him everything. Just call him. Leave another message.   
"This is your fault. You couldn't handle your own feelings, and you were too scared to say so, and now you're alone. This is your own fault, Logan." He berates himself as if it were a mantra, a summoning of some ancient force of masochism, reminding everyone on the planet that Logan messed up, and it's his fault everything has gone to the dogs.   
He reaches for the phone.   
He gets voicemail.   
"Hey, Roman, I don't know why I called. Silly, right? Me, not knowing what to say. I just—I don't know. Sorry. I just—I just called to say I love you. Come back home."   
His finger bounces between two choices.   
Delete message?   
Or send message?   
His finger wavers.   
Send. Delete. Send. Delete. Send delete send delete send delete sendelete sendelete sendelete sendelete. Send. Or delete.

He clicks one.


End file.
